


The Problem

by TheProfessor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheProfessor/pseuds/TheProfessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The problem with living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes is that there's always a problem."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> For my darling Amber, because I promised her I would.

The problem with living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes is that there's always a problem.

Said problem is always ridiculous and unavoidable, but that doesn't change the fact that there is always, inevitably, a problem.

Like today.

John wasn't entirely certain that lighting the kitchen on fire wasn't Sherlock's objective. That is, for the sake of the experiment, a fire had to be lit, and the resulting flames happened to jump onto the newspaper sitting on the kitchen table and quickly spread across the surface of Sherlock's equipment, scorching the table and lighting many things on fire that should never be on fire.

John smelled the burning paper in the same moment that Sherlock noticed a considerable heat against the back of his hand.

“Sherlock, the table!” John jumped from his chair as Sherlock jumped from his, grabbing his almost-full cup of tea and dumping it over the fire. Smoke flew up toward the ceiling and they both coughed and hacked until Sherlock opened the kitchen window. John filled the cup a second time and doused what remained of the flames.

Sherlock's arms flew in every direction as he tried to wave off the smoke. “John, are you-”

“What the bloody hell were you doing?!” John yelled.

Sherlock frowned through the cloud of grey-white. “I needed a fire to test the flammability of the piece of cloth that we found at the crime scene this morning.”

“Did you need to set the entire kitchen on fire as well?” John set his cup down, looking into it mournfully. That had been a perfect cuppa. Gone to waste now. “Mrs. Hudson's going to put that table on next month's rent.”

“So?”

“So- So? I'd like to be able to spend some of my money on things that I want, once in a while, rather than using it to help fix your messes,” he huffed, putting the cup in the sink. “It smells terrible in here, I'm going out for a while.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock replied coolly. He returned to his chair, the smallest discomfort showing when he coughed from the smoke.

John put on his coat and left the flat. It was late Friday afternoon, maybe Mike would be up for a pint.

xxxxxxxxxx

Several hours later, John returned to the flat with a bit of alcohol and food in his belly, feeling in much higher spirits than when he left. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, not even in his bedroom, and the entire flat still smelled like smoke.

John shucked off his coat, did his business in the bathroom, and walked upstairs to his bedroom. Upon opening the door, it became clear to him that there was something wrong with his bed.

That is, there was a Sherlock in it.

“Sherlock, what the hell-”

“Tired. Smells downstairs,” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“Of course it- That was your own fault!” John said, raising his voice the slightest bit. “Can't you shut your bedroom door?”

“Tried, doesn't help,” Sherlock turned over, facing the other direction, to either cut off the conversation or to let John change clothes, he wasn't sure. In the end, John sighed and got changed while he had the chance. Moving Sherlock would just cause a fight that John was too tired for right now, and he certainly wasn't going to be evicted from his own bleeding bed.

He laid down next to Sherlock in defiance, their backs almost touching in the too-small-for-two-people bed.

Several moments passed with both men only breathing.

Then, “Sherlock, if you aren't going to give me part of the blanket, can you at least share the pillow?”

Sherlock huffed and scooted closer to his flatmate, pushing the pillow along with him. John took the other half of the object. “Thank you.”

Sherlock grunted in response.

Many minutes passed before John was sure Sherlock was asleep. He carefully got up from the bed, went to the closet, and retrieved the spare blanket from the shelf inside. Wrapping himself up in the warmth, he returned to his half of the bed and his half of the pillow.

As John got comfortable for what he hoped was the last time, Sherlock turned over in his sleep, unceremoniously throwing his arm over John's torso, in what John was sure was Sherlock's version of accidental sleep-cuddling. John huffed, furrowing his eyebrows. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock was mumbling something in his sleep.

“What?”

The consulting detective repeated himself, sounding like a slurred and sleepy, 'Sorry about the table'.

John's expression softened and he rolled his eyes. “Can't be arsed to apologize when he's awake,” he thought.

John hunkered down, decided not to move Sherlock's arm, and slept. He only hoped he would be awake early enough to see Sherlock's reaction to it.


End file.
